Cherringham--Too Many Lies

by Matthew Costello

  At that he nodded and gently opened his arms to his supporters.

  And — Sarah caught her breath — Chloe stood up and ran to Ralph, as did others, as the group raised its signs, waving them like weapons.

  But still, in the well-orchestrated move, no chants … yet.

  Ralph went on as Callum Ross glowered from the stage.

  “No, there’s only one thing I have left to say. And it’s this: here, in your lovely village, this group, behind me, with me, around me — dedicated, determined — will fight this development—”

  The next words nearly sinister …

  Oh, how I wish Chloe wasn’t up there with him, Sarah thought.

  “—every step of the way!”

  He took a deep breath and raised his arms high: “Save our hall! Save our hall!”

  And at that, the group raised their placards and their deafening chant began again: “Save our hall! Save our hall!”

  Some of the audience, perhaps swayed, now joined in, standing, cheering, singing — the atmosphere crazy, even a little scary. But Sarah could also see other villagers shouting back at the group, even a few snarling faces, and now, screwed-up meeting papers flying through the air like angry batons.

  This was a vision of Cherringham that Sarah had never seen before, and could never have imagined.

  At the council table, Tony turned to Carl Coleman — the businessman now looking furious.

  As it was clear that — for now, for tonight — the hearing was over.

  And Jack, ever able to squeeze some humour out of the trickiest of situations, leaned close to Sarah, and said, over the noisy chants, “Well, that was informative.”

  2. A Chill in the Air

  With the audience in chaos, the meeting was now — to all intents and purposes — over.

  Sarah’s dad wasted no time in leaving the stage and hurrying over to her, as she and Jack stood by the door watching the noisy, arguing crowd filing out.

  A nod to Jack.

  “Didn’t quite expect to see you two here tonight. Glad for the friendly faces though!”

  “Dad — this meeting—?”

  “An ‘informal hearing’ actually, as Tony said, though not much got heard.”

  Sarah looked to the left where the jumble of “Save Our Hall” protestors were milling about, still waving signs. Their leader spoke to a smaller group of them.

  One of whom was Chloe.

  Sarah’s father noticed that glance.

  “I see Chloe has decided to get involved in local issues, hmm?”

  Sarah nodded, and did nothing to hide her displeasure.

  “Quite the evening, Michael,” Jack said.

  “Oh, too right, Jack. But ’fraid that was exactly the way we thought it was going to go.”

  “Dad, you and Tony, on the council? How do you feel about all this?”

  Michael rubbed his chin, and looked away; something she remembered him doing from her earliest years, whenever she asked her dad — a sweet, gentle man — a difficult question.

  “Well, here’s the thing, it’s all about the money. We are strapped for money, and this place with all the repairs and maintenance required is absolutely haemorrhaging cash. Something has to be done. And — whatever the solution — it is not going to be popular with everybody.”

  Jack, Sarah saw, had looked over to the other side of the hall where Carl Coleman and a striking younger woman with dark hair, she recognised as Coleman’s wife, stood near the podium chatting to Callum Ross.

  And she had a funny thought.

  Funny in that it wasn’t the type of thing she thought of, least when it came to Jack.

  Had Coleman’s wife — looking cool and svelte, in her stilettos — caught his eye?

  Now, though, she saw that he had turned back to Michael.

  “And what do you make of those guys — Ross, his son, his legal team?”

  “Oh. Well, you know I’ve never really had to deal with that type before. So … who knows? Maybe, I guess, a little shark-like?”

  “Shark?” Sarah said.

  “Yes, as in the Great White that eats other fish whole.”

  “And him?” said Jack, nodding to the group of protestors who were now also leaving the room through the great double doors and onto the staircase that led downstairs.

  An air of victory about that lot.

  “Oh, Syms. Certainly, he’s made the whole process far more bothersome and complicated. Instead of being able to logically weigh options, figure out what to do, he’s got half the village up in arms.”

  “That he does,” Jack said.

  “Including your own granddaughter,” Sarah added, nodding towards Chloe, just visible at Syms’s side, disappearing out of the door.

  “Duly noted. Somebody, somewhere came up with the big bucks to hire him.”

  “Hmm, was thinking that very thought,” said Jack. “The guy is clearly a pro. Don’t come cheap. Any idea who?”

  “Your guess, Jack, your guess. Got quite a track record. And so far, well, he’s brought this whole process to a grinding halt.”

  Sarah saw their friend, Tony Standish, hurry over, also with a look of agitation in his eyes.

  “Jack, Sarah,” he said by way of a greeting.

  Sarah was curious. Did Tony also feel that the project was necessary to rescue the finances of the village, or was he with the “Savers”?

  For now, he revealed nothing.

  “Michael, um, you see the fellow over there who’s talking to Carl and his wife? Apparently, he’s the actual builder contracted to run the project. Chap called Tom Hayes?”

  Sarah looked over to where Cherringham’s business chief and his wife were heading out of the door with a stocky young guy in T-shirt and jeans.

  Sarah turned back to Jack. Maybe, with council work to be done, it was time for them to leave too.

  “He wanted a word. Said he didn’t get to submit his projected timetable, the expense sheet, options. I told him that, well, as anyone could see, tonight was not the night.”

  Sarah’s dad nodded. “Very well. Poor man looks shell-shocked. I imagine a word about ‘hanging in there’ wouldn’t hurt. I’ll go catch up with them. And you two?”

  And that was another thing, Sarah thought.

  She and Jack were such good friends. Everyone spoke of them in similar terms.

  You two.

  “Any plans?”

  Jack spoke up.

  “Why, as a matter of fact, was about to suggest a nightcap. You care to join us? Ploughman’s should be interesting tonight after this ‘show’.”

  “Love to, Jack,” Tony said. “A large Macallan would go down a treat. But Michael and I had better attend to the ‘aftermath’, if you know what I mean.”

  “Rain check,” Jack said. “Sure.”

  Tony and Michael, with quick nods, sailed over to where the lumpy contractor was being steered gently out of the hall.

  “I like the sound of that nightcap,” Sarah said.

  “Yes. Thought we could talk about this, and maybe, well, the return of the prodigal daughter. Life in general? We’re overdue for a proper catch-up.”

  “Agreed. I certainly could use some sage counsel from someone else who’s raised a daughter.”

  Sarah knew that Jack was close to his daughter, living in California, with one granddaughter already aged four and another baby on the way.

  And she had to wonder …

  Would that event, as it did once before, pull Jack away from Cherringham?

  Sarah couldn’t imagine what it was like to have grandchildren.

  Had to be something special. But even with Chloe clearly a woman, with her own mind, she hoped that such an “event” was well down the road.

  “Great. Short meeting — night is young. Let’s go.”

  And Sarah led the way, past the people who remained, chattering away, and the chairs with their neat rows, out onto the great wooden staircase that led down.

  As she and Jack descended
, she looked up at the great portraits that lined the walls — Victorian landscapes of the area, formal portraits of past mayors, local philanthropists.

  Cherringham heroes of long-forgotten wars, generations of the Repton family.

  Would these survive the development? Would this staircase — this grand marble-floored hall — be a feature? Or would it all be torn down, turned into scrap, all in the name of progress?

  *

  “I’m parked over on New Street,” said Sarah as Jack helped her on with her coat, dusk already turning to night. “Shall I see you down at the pub?”

  “No problem,” said Jack zipping up his leather jacket. “Nice night. I’ll walk up with you to your car.”

  “Nowhere to park here in the square,” she said as they crossed the High Street by her office and walked towards the narrow cut-through that zig-zagged around St James’s Church. “Kinda ironic.”

  Jack paused at the tiny stile at the end of the alleyway, to let Sarah go ahead.

  This quiet cut-through was a good place to walk in the chilly fall air, and talk.

  He started the ball rolling.

  “So — about Chloe. Back living with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “Oh — you know.”

  “Have you two talked about things?”

  “You mean the battle over the hall?”

  “Well that, and maybe her plans? The future?”

  “Ha. The ‘future’. Not sure that’s a topic I can raise with her currently. Most of our conversations have been rather on the brief side.”

  At that, Jack laughed. “Oh, know that well. Was a time my daughter seemed to communicate in two- or three-word blasts. Like she was hiding a state secret. But I can tell you — reporting from the other side — that eventually—”

  “Ahhhh!” A loud yell from just ahead, echoing off the cobblestones at their feet and the tall, shoulder-high wall on either side.

  “Stay—” Jack started to say.

  But he should have known better. Sarah was already racing off.

  Another yell from the darkness ahead. Even louder.

  “God! Help!”

  Jack was right behind Sarah as she hurtled around a curve to a fork on the cut-through lane, that led to the Bell Hotel and the top end of the village.

  As they turned the corner, what Jack saw was bad indeed.

  *

  Sarah looked on, open-mouthed.

  One man lay on the ground, curled up. Another, in a dark hoodie, stood over him.

  The scene was barely visible, the only thing catching any light, the glimmering of a knife blade.

  “You! Stop!”

  Sarah rushed towards them, but the guy in the hoodie turned and bolted. She saw Jack race past her in pursuit.

  Sarah hurried to the man on the ground.

  “Bloody … hell!” he said.

  When he turned, Sarah could see a gash in his right shoulder — the wound like a dripping mouth.

  Sarah slipped off her denim jacket, and quickly wrapped the man’s upper arm.

  And only then, did she see who he was.

  Ralph Syms.

  She pulled the jacket tight in a makeshift tourniquet.

  This man — who only a little while ago had made her so angry — now had Sarah playing nurse.

  “We have to get you to a doctor.”

  The man shook his head.

  “That guy in the hoodie. Came out of bloody nowhere, right at me.”

  Sarah nodded. “You know him?”

  “Know him?” The sound of exasperation in his voice. “Couldn’t even see his damn face. So dark. Covered. Was heading for a drink …”

  “The Bell?”

  A nod. “Happened so quick.”

  And then, Jack was back.

  Alone.

  “No luck?” she said.

  “No. Guy was fast, then skipped a wall, and vanished into the fields the other side of New Street. Could be anywhere by now.”

  She saw Jack look down, and take in the victim.

  The “Save Our Hall” campaign had suddenly turned dangerous.

  At least for Ralph Syms.

  She had so many questions, but for now …

  “Mr Syms, do you think you can get up?”

  Syms stared at his arm, wrapped in a denim jacket. “I—I guess so …”

  She and Jack helped the wounded man up.

  “We can call an ambulance if you—” Jack started.

  Now Syms managed a weak smile. “No. Th-think I’m okay to walk. God, if you two hadn’t been here. That …” Syms looked down the curved lane where his assailant had vanished, “maniac could have killed me.”

  Sarah nodded. For now, Syms would need his wound bandaged, maybe a sling.

  But had the blade hit a different spot, it could have easily been lethal.

  She looked at Jack and guessed he knew that too, as they walked Syms slowly to the Bell, where an ambulance could be called.

  What are the odds? she thought.

  This guy who Sarah had been suspicious of, was now leaning on Jack, as the two of them tended to him.

  Maybe I’ve got Syms — and this whole protest movement — all wrong.

  3. No Fishing Today

  Jack saw Riley, his springer spaniel, look up at him — the dog’s eyes looking curious, as Jack twisted bits of coloured string around a thin and very sharp hook.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” he said, “we’ll get to our favourite spot just as soon as I finish this lure. Then, if the fish gods shine on us, a little trout for dinner, hmm?”

  But then, sitting on the deck of his boat The Grey Goose, the morning sun exposing all the spots that were overdue for a touch-up with paint or varnish, he saw two cars pull up by the river embankment, parking right next to his MG.

  One of them was the town’s lone police car, meaning it could be none other than Alan Rivers.

  The other — Sarah’s.

  “Interesting,” Jack said. He had easily fallen into a pattern of talking to his dog, not because it made him feel less alone — Jack was perfectly okay with being alone — but more that Riley seemed to, well, enjoy the interaction.

  He watched Sarah and Alan walking together, side by side, up to the wooden plank that led to Jack’s deck. Riley seemed to sense that his master’s attention had shifted from the lure to something else, and the dog stood up.

  And in response to the visitors, Riley wagged his tail.

  After all, Jack knew, Sarah had taken care of Riley for nearly a year … ultimately prompting Jack to buy her her own pup, Digby.

  Though he knew that she still had a soft spot in her heart for his springer.

  Alan led the way up the plank, followed by Jack’s good friend and partner-in-crime.

  The solving of crime, at least.

  “Well, good morning. Do hope I’m not in any trouble. Been trying to toe the mark.”

  At that he saw Alan grin.

  Sarah’s face though, more serious.

  And Jack guessed, this must have something to do with last night’s knife attack on Syms.

  But first, protocol must be observed …

  “Just got one more loop to do on this” — and here he held up the colourful and feathery hook — “lure. Then, pot of tea? Deck side?”

  “Sounds good, Jack.”

  And to which Sarah responded, “You really have gone full-on English, haven’t you?”

  He gave a quick smile, just for her. “I do try.” He applied the last twist to the coloured string at the base of the hook. “Riley, my old friend,” he said, addressing his dog, “I do believe that we may have to postpone our fishing excursion.”

  To which the dog tilted his head, perhaps not understanding why the adventure was to be deferred.

  *

  They sipped the tea on the sunny deck, sitting on the folding chairs that Jack favoured, rather than the more opulent lounge chairs of the other river barge owners.


  Jack liked it simple.

  “Jack,” Alan said, “you talk to Riley here like you think he actually understands you.”

  About to take a sip, Jack’s eyebrows went up.

  “Well, of course he does. Any dog person would know that. Now I understand that you have a cat up at the station, hmm? Different kettle of fish there, if I can mix my animal species. See, had a cat once back in Brooklyn, and they just don’t care. Not about humans at least.”

  And again, Alan laughed.

  Though not the greatest of detecting minds — often relying on Sarah and Jack to assist with a complicated case — Alan was definitely a good sort.

  Wonder, Jack thought, if he still carries a bit of a torch for Sarah, left over from high school days?

  Wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

  And that brought up a whole host of questions.

  Like how come Sarah hadn’t found someone else all these years after the end of her messy marriage, her husband cheating and all.

  Burned too bad by that — or …?

  Jack knew well enough not to think too deeply about it, or ever ask her about that.

  “Jack,” Sarah said, “Alan popped over to my office first thing this morning — to take my statement. About last night.”

  Jack nodded. “How is Syms?”

  “Angry. Upset. And extremely lucky the blade went where it did and not an inch higher.”

  “Yup. Could have been very nasty,” said Jack.

  “That’s right. Anyhow, they stitched him up at the hospital, let him out last night. When I saw him at seven this morning he was already back at his desk.”

  “Fighting the good fight,” said Sarah.

  Jack caught her eye and she smiled, though Alan didn’t react.

  “So — any leads?” said Jack turning to him.

  “Not a one,” Alan said. “Least, not any real leads. As to who might have wanted to harm Syms, well, there’s a whole cast of characters for that.”

  Jack took another sip of tea, realising where this was leading.

  “So — I’m guessing you need my statement too?”

  Now Alan paused to take a sip.

  “Among other things, yes, Jack.”

  And Jack watched as Alan put down his tea, then took out his notebook and pen.